Perso e Trovato
by BananaSam1
Summary: A Jack-Lives fic, with a twist. When Rose puts her and Jack's daughter up for adoption, who will take the baby in?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Everything but the plot belongs to James Cameron and his merry band of movie-makers. Actually, I had help with the plot (Emma), but it's still mine! Mine! Author's Note: Thanks to: Emma, my lovely, lovely beta reader. And Helena too, for listening to our mindless banter. Ciao!  
  
**************************************************************************** **************** Rose stepped out into the pouring rain, scarlet curls already soaked and plastered to her pale forehead. Her eyes darted around, avoiding stares from curious onlookers. One inquisitive man stopped her, asking eagerly "Were you on the Titanic?" Numb, she shook her head: it was easier that way. Rose gawked, panicky, at the busy city. How was she ever going to survive without...no, don't think about him, it was too painful. She forced her mind to think of other things. First priority was to find a place to live. Rose wandered down an alley, just to escape the probing crowd. A sign in a grimy window promised "ROOMS FOR RENT". When she knocked, an elderly, bent-over woman answered the door.  
  
"Excuse me, but do you have any vacancies?", Rose mumbled. The lady showed her to a small room, with cracked walls. It contained a narrow bed, a ragged arm-chair and a rickety table.  
  
"The bathroom's down the hall," croaked the landowner as she left, paid with the money Rose found in Cal's jacket. Shivering, Rose locked the door. and crawled under the covers, her clothes still damp. The pent-up emotion finally formed itself into a single, crystalline tear. She curled herself up, preparing for a long, sleepless night.  
  
**************************************************************************** **************** Meanwhile, Jack Dawson was trying to find a place dry enough in Central Park to light a cigarette: he really needed one. He settled down on a bench, the tree above deflecting most of the rain. As he lay there, Jack was playing over that terrible night. What-ifs ran through his head, questioning his actions that fateful night. 'What if I had held onto her hand tighter? What if I had looked harder when we got separated? Would she be here with me?'  
  
He had lost his Rose, his love. Jack could not believe she was gone, her name wasn't on the survivor list. Nor was she on the Carpathia, he'd scoured the first class deck, searching for her. Of course, he'd seen Cal and Ruth mourning his Rose as well. But she couldn't be found. He inhaled deeply, trying desperately to calm his nerves.  
  
Uncontrollable tears rolled down his cheeks. 'How could you let her die? She trusted you! You were supposed to save her Jack, and what did you do? You let her slip away!' Like Rose, Jack wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.  
  
Author's Note: I've already got more chapters down, so they'll be up soon. Thanks! Please R/R! 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I've said it once, and I'll say it again: this all belongs to James Cameron and his merry band of movie-makers. Author's Note: See? I told you I would update!  
  
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August 2, 1912  
  
Rose knew it now. When her monthly bleeding had stopped and hadn't occurred again for the past four months, she suspected. But now, as her stomach was starting to round noticeably, she couldn't deny it. Rose was pregnant with Jack's child.  
  
She was ambiguous, as though she couldn't decide how to feel. Part of her was giddy, ecstatic. She would have something of Jack to hold, something tangible.  
  
Then again, she felt terrible. She didn't have the money to support a child. Cal's money was running low, and she didn't have any means of income. A horrible realization came over her. "I have to give up Jack's child," she murmured, almost not believing it. A strangled cry worked free, "No!" But there was no other way around it. She would have to give up Jack's child for adoption.  
  
Sighing, she snuggled deeper into her bed, trying to avoid further confrontation with reality. There was no other option. Suddenly, she sat straight up, more bad news racing through her already exhausted mind. If she wanted to continue living here, and have her baby in a hospital, she'd have to get a job.  
  
After trying to delay getting out of bed, Rose finally psyched herself into going out. As soon as she was dressed, Rose trekked to the small café nearby, for some breakfast. A "Help Wanted" sign hung brightly in the window, catching her eye. After a moment's thought, she dashed in.  
  
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During the last four months, Jack hadn't lost hope of finding Rose again. Every red head he saw, he would stop. Every customer he had, he'd inquire if they'd heard of Rose DeWitt Bukator. They hadn't.  
  
He'd spent the last months drawing portraits in Central Park, for 10 cents apiece. It was decent job, and he got to do what he loved. Jack was getting enough business, so that he could leave his park bench (although he'd grown rather fond of it), and move to a nearby apartment.  
  
He could even spare money for paint and a canvas, which he worked on during the nights. The painting was almost finished. It depicted a young woman with unruly auburn curls, standing near the railing of a ship. By just looking at it, you could almost feel the wind and smell the ocean. It was perfect, except the woman had no face.  
  
That evening, Jack sat down before the painting, and spent two hours, just looking at it. Suddenly, he began working with fervor. By morning, Rose was smiling at a paint splattered Jack from her place by the railing of the ship. 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: All this belongs to James Cameron, and (Yes, I'm saying it again) his band of merry movie-makers.  
  
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October 15, 1912  
  
Rose was thinking about the baby. All she wanted to do was to keep it, care for it. After all, it was all she had left of him. His blonde hair, always slightly mussed by the wind. Or how he'd taught her to spit. She almost laughed at the memory.  
  
Rose quickly sobered when other memories surfaced. Ones that wrenched her heart almost from her chest. Damn, she missed him. It'd been 6 months and 3 days since she'd lost him: she'd counted every hour.  
  
Suddenly, Rose sat up. What time was it?! She glanced at the cheap clock; 6:59. If she was late for work again, Mr. Andrews swore on his mother's grave she'd be fired. As she wriggled into her uniform, a ugly teal and purple thing, she reflected on how the Mr. Andrews she'd known had been such a gentleman, while the her boss, though he shared the same name, was quite frankly a SOB. She finished dressing and raced out the door in less than a minute.  
  
She bolted down the stairs, slamming open the door, maroon paint splinters hitting the wall. Sprinting down the sidewalk, she had to dart around innocent bystanders, not as easy task when her belly was hindering her every step.  
  
When she arrived at the café, Mr. Andrews was standing at the door, spindly frame leaned against the frame, looking almost innocent. One glance at his pocket watch and suddenly, his hideous face broke out into a exultant, demonic grin. He threw back his head and guffawed.  
  
"One minute too late, Rosie dear. Leave your apron with me, I'll make sure it goes to someone more." he looked her up and down, eyes resting on her stomach. ".qualified."  
  
Rose's bright eyes narrowed, slowly untying her striped apron, and shoved it into his arms, calling Mr. Andrews a couple of well deserved names that she wouldn't have dared said, (Ruth was sure to have had a heart attack, hearing her perfect little Rose talk like that), before striding off in a completely unexplored direction.  
  
She passed a theater, then stopped. The voices of performers rehearsing filled her ears. She need a job, and maybe the theater needed some help backstage. Contemplating this possibility, she waited a moment before striding up the walk. Holding her head high, Rose opened the door and stepped in. Passing brightly decorated scenery and fairies galore, she inquired about the manager.  
  
"He's back there," a young girl gestured to a obscure door in the back, behind an assortment of faux trees.  
  
Rose knocked on the door, almost timid. A booming, theatrical voice invited her in. Opening the door, she saw a rather plump, balding man. Putting on her most confident voice and expression, she introduced herself.  
  
"Hello, my name is Rose Dawson. I was wondering if you needed any help with scenery or something?". The man smiled kindly.  
  
"We always need help backstage. In fact, the next play is going on in less than a month. A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare. It should be good. And we're going to need lots of help with scenery." Rose grinned.  
  
"Thank you, sir. When should I start?" she questioned. He studied her, obviously noticing her stomach, but not saying anything.  
  
"Tomorrow, if that's alright with you. And call me Bill. Bill Zwilling. I'm the owner and director of this fine establishment." Bill spread his arms wide as if to incorporate the entire building. He smiled.  
  
"Welcome to the Zwilling Theater!"  
  
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Jack sat down on his rough wood bench, flipping his worn leather notebook open, and sharpening the tools of his trade. Today was a good day. Rose was here with him.  
  
He glanced over at the finished painting of her, her cerulean eyes watching him, that smile, her smile captured on the canvas. His eyes snap shut, only briefly, to protect him from the desolate look he'd seen last on her face. Re-focusing himself, he smiled back at the painting of his love. He wasn't over her. He would never be over her. But, it was a consolation to have this portrait of her. Jack returned to sharpening. Yup, today was going to be a good one.  
  
A young girl with dark hair and her balding father walked up. One portrait, done. An elderly couple, adorned with spectacles. Two portraits. A young man, dressed in green. Almost three.  
  
"Excuse me, fellow, did you paint that exquisite portrait of the red head?" boomed a portly man, who was wearing an almost-too-tight suit, and was tapping Jack's shoulder incessantly. The man's light coffee colored hair was shaded with silver, and was combed and oiled neatly in a part. He had a large, impressive brown mustache that he kept fiddling with and a slightly red face.  
  
"Uh.yes, sir, yes I did." Jack looked up at the man, slightly confused.  
  
"I'd like to purchase it." The man shoved a couple of banknotes into Jack's hand, shaking it firmly, before waddling over to the portrait and reaching out with a fleshy hand to grab it.  
  
"No!" Jack was up in an instant, shielding his Rose from the unwanted, uninvited visitor. He stared at this intimidating man, who was obviously confused.  
  
"Ah. you'll be wanting my name? My name is R.J. Pendelton, art dealer and connoisseur." He hands Jack a card, before reaching again for the painting.  
  
"I'm sorry, R.J, I can't let you have that one." The man looks surprised at being addressed so informally.  
  
"But, there are a lot more. You can buy those." Jack said hurriedly, hoping not to dissuade Mr. Pendelton from purchasing anything.  
  
R.J. Pendelton lost interest in the Rose portrait fast as he poured over the drawings in Jack's notebook. A young family out for a stroll in the park, a scruffy dog, and less recently, Cora and her father, Tommy and Fabrizio.  
  
"My God," said Mr. Pendelton softly. "You're a genius. Mr. Dawson, I'm willing to offer a hefty sum for these drawings. And I'm sure I'll be back with commissions. You just keep drawing these, and I'll keep paying." Slightly dazed, Jack nodded, exchanging 10 drawings, sans Titanic ones, for a wad of money. As R.J. toddled away, he remembered.  
  
"Thank you." he called out weakly. 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: This all belongs to James Cameron and his merry mob of magic movie makers (Ooo.alliteration!). If only Jack belonged to me. *sigh* Oh, and Midsummer Night's Dream belongs to Will Shakespeare.  
  
Author's Note: First of all, Emma, you would be wrong about the black & white thing, as I've explained to you. Auburn, Emma, auburn. Next, thanks to all you guys who've reviewed: Yay! No flames! Except for that whole much- too-short issue.ah, we'll fix it.  
  
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December 24, 1912  
  
"And you know, that Timothy Smith.". Elizabeth dropped to the floor in a dead faint, before rising, giggling hysterically. Rose smiled at her friend.  
  
"I've seen handsomer.". Rose trailed off, thinking, of course, about Jack. Her attention returns to her golden haired friend. Elizabeth Harman was her best friend at the theater. Tall, thin, graceful, she commanded the attention of the young men working at the theater. Elizabeth shook her head ruefully.  
  
"Why won't you tell me about this mystery boy? What ever happened to him?" Rose sighed. It wasn't a story she was willing to reveal yet. Elizabeth eyed Rose's stomach curiously.  
  
"Is he the baby's father?" Rose nodded solemnly, and returned to painting the tree at hand, saying no more. She eyes her work remorsefully; Jack could have done better. Needless to say, he'd have been proud of her work anyway, but still.Her thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Zwilling's thunderous voice:  
  
"I want the scene we've been having trouble with rehearsed. Everyone, to your places." He surveyed scenery suspiciously.  
  
"Anna isn't here today, out sick. Rose, fill in." She rose awkwardly, striding inelegantly over to the stage. Rose already knew the lines by heart, she'd seen the actors rehearse so many times. Mr. Zwilling looked over the actors with approval.  
  
"Ready? And start with 'Why do you think.?'". Mr.Zwilling stopped, only for the line to be continued by Andrew, who was playing Lysander. "Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?" boomed Andrew. Rose stepped up beside him, playing Helena. "You do advance your cunning more and more. When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray! These vows are Hermia's: will you give her o'er? Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh: your vows to her and me, put in two scales, will even weigh, and both as light as tales." Rose glared at him, obviously getting into the role. "I had no judgment when to her I swore!" promised Andrew/Lysander. "Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er," retaliated Rose, curls flying. Mr. Zwilling watched, utterly amazed: the pregnant girl from backstage was a fabulous actress! "Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you!" shouted Andrew. The scene continued until its end. Rose came out of her daze, almost surprised at her knack for this. Elizabeth stood up, whooping and clapping, followed by the whole theater. Rose curtseyed awkwardly, before going back to her tree, a little stupefied. Mr. Zwilling sat in his chair, thinking. Next play, Rose would have the lead. She had the talent, and the work ethic to become a star, and a star was just what the theater needed. ****************************************************************************  
  
  
  
Today was Saturday. Jack yawns widely, rising slowly from his warm bed. Course, he could afford a bigger house, servants, cars, the works. But, Jack preferred the basics. Although, he thought, pulling off the thick blankets and slipping into clean, warm clothes, being affluent wasn't too bad.  
  
His new apartment was right in the center of the town, and it was nicer than anywhere he'd ever stayed.well, Titanic didn't count. Of course, the added benefit was his new workspace, inside an art gallery.  
  
Placing some paper and art supplies in his worn pack, he shrugged the knapsack onto his back and exited his apartment, carefully locking the red door. Jack started off towards the park, his favorite place to spend a day.  
  
He stopped at his bench, settling down with a piece of paper and began to sketch the young girl playing next to her father. Quickly, he lost himself to the picture, until he saw a dark haired man striding along the path, looking quite uncomfortable.  
  
A young, blond woman hung onto his arm, and Jack could catch the words "slumming" and "unwashed swines" from their conversation. The woman was slim, with masses of platinum blonde locks pilled atop her fine-featured head. The man was tall, wearing the most expensive clothes, and looked a lot like.no, it couldn't be. Jack shook his head mournfully.  
  
As fate seemed to have it in for Jack today, the woman brightened visibly when she saw the young, blond man sitting on the park bench, tools of the artist trade in hand.  
  
"Darling, don't you think it would be auspicious to have this young.man do a little portrait of us? You know, to commemorate our engagement?" Her voice was high, and nasal, kind of like a gnat. It was already ready beginning to grate on Jack's nerves, and he'd only heard her speak once.  
  
She walked up to him, thin hips swiveling atrociously. Jack glanced up at her, eyebrow raised.  
  
"Yes? Can I help you?" he inquired warily.  
  
"My fiancé and I would like a portrait done of us. You know, something to remember this vacation?" she purred, long, painted nails extending towards him with money. The man chortled uncomfortably.  
  
"Angela, sweet pea. You know this isn't a vacation. We live here now, and we won't be going back to Philadelphia. You know why." The familiar stranger seemed anxious to get off the topic. He turned back to Jack.  
  
"Make sure you get all of her in the picture and.I'd like more of a porcelain doll look. None of that risqué stuff, understand?" Jack nodded stiffly. He could do the corpse look.it just took more effort.  
  
The couple posed rigidly, as Jack worked on the portrait. The gentleman looked at his watch.  
  
"Great Scott! I'm late for the meeting! Angela, darling, let him finish you up. Then, come back to the apartment as soon as possible." He kissed her cheek, then stood up to go.  
  
"By the way, my name is Hockley. Caledon Hockley. Pleasure to meet you." He left as suddenly, in the same bustling manner as he came. As soon as he was gone, Angela reached for Jack's hand.  
  
"Come on." Her tone had gone sex-kitten on him. Jack pulled away, looking confused.  
  
"What are you talking about?" She attempted to look pathetically innocent.  
  
"Why do I think I chose you do our portrait, and not that peg-legged man over there? I picked you for a reason" Angela smiled coquettishly and put her arms around him. 


End file.
